


John of Ravenscar

by LadyHedoniste



Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate History, Infant Death, Lot of research and equal parts handwaving, M/M, Medieval AU, Nuns, Parental Deaths, The author's best attempts at medieval magic, Werebears
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:58:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHedoniste/pseuds/LadyHedoniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Medieval Hellblazer/Constantine AU. In another world, in another time, John Constantine is born an heir to the throne of England, whether he likes it or not. King Thomas hates his guts, Cheryl is too busy being a proper lady, and all his friends are rich little tossers. His only solace is magic, in a time where being into magic is a terrible idea for anyone fond of breathing. Oh, superb, he's being shuffled off to Oxford.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ridens Cliuinx

**Author's Note:**

  * For [visiblemarket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/gifts).



The death of Mary Anne Constantine and one of her twin sons came exactly one week after the coronation of Thomas Constantine as King of England. Only a single child, John, had survived the ordeal. He was a sickly infant, and as the newly crowned King Thomas tore apart the dining hall in his violent grief, all around the castle the people whispered about “ill omens”. As careful as they were with their gossip, word eventually reached the king. He took brief reprieve from his grief, turning to the fresh hatred he felt for his new son, for the crime of killing his mother and twin. King Thomas sat for hours in front of the fire in his chambers, drinking and brooding and muttering.

“It’s a shame,” said the nursemaid to the head cook. “His brother was all pink and beautiful. Would have been a beautiful, strong boy if it hadn’t been for the cord around his neck. Now we have to struggle at all hours to keep that half-dead little runt alive.”

The infant John had taken to screaming for hours. Not the natural screams of a newborn coming to terms with being alive, but those of one who had been through some horrible event they couldn’t comprehend or move past. And also of one suffering from some kind of gooey infant lung disease. It was only exhaustion that put him to sleep most nights, whimpering and gurgling into uneasy slumber.

“If he doesn’t quiet down some day soon, I’ll quiet him down so the rest of us can rest,” muttered the nursemaid. The cook hissed at her and motioned to keep her voice down. “Don’t you even speak of it!” she said, voice hushed. The nursemaid clicked her tongue in irritation. “I wasn’t being serious, Matild. Wouldn’t dream of regicide, or infanticide…whatever you would call it. And besides, the King would likely pull the whole castle down if he lost another one…well, maybe. He hasn’t visited the boy once, so perhaps my neck would be spared from the noose. Poor little Cheryl has been his only visitor, and she never stays for long with all the noise he makes,” she said, shaking her head.

Matild patted her friend on the arm. “Sybil, perhaps what he needs is a properly skilled healer to look over him and soothe his spirits a little. My cousin Hildegard is very talented with herbs and has put more than a few people back on their feet again. Good with children too! She’s visiting a friend at an abbey in the South. I’ll send for her and see if she is willing to see what the matter is with the miserable little babe.”

Sybil’s eyes lit up in gratitude. “You should be sainted, my dear. Send for her. I’m sure there will be more than enough purses willing to pay her fee for a night’s rest, if the King isn’t.”

Twelve days later, a woman in a nun’s habit arrived at the castle gate with a large satchel of dried herbs, and a very thick book. Once ushered inside the nursery, she spent several moments debating with the nursemaid, before Sybil reluctantly left the room. She smiled at the still-wailing boy. “Let us see what ails you, poorly little peranz.”

The woman took five candles and a stick of charcoal out of her satchel. She held out her hands, closed her eyes, and began to whisper in a language unspoken by any other mortal being “ _Limzkil zains…_ ”

Her eyes flew open as the vision instantly came upon her. John stopped crying to watch her, overcome with curiosity. “Oh”, she said, smiling down at the boy. “I see who and what you are, Ridens Cliuinx! The Laughing Magician reborn again! And a prince. Well, it’s no wonder you’re miserable, poor dear. All the attention, with only a sliver of love.”

She gently picked up the now silent John, rocking him slightly. “I suppose that catarrh isn’t doing you many favours either. Don’t you worry, dear heart. I have some aniseed essence in my satchel that will have you breathing and sleeping again soon.”

Two days later, the crying ceased and Hildegard von Bingen was paid a very generous fee, with an offer of employment as a healer for all of Ravenscar castle. She politely declined, but a day later reconsidered. “He’s going to need a little help staying out of the wrong kind of trouble for as long as possible,” she explained to the nursemaid. Sybil, deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth (and not quite understanding what kind of trouble she was referring to), said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have visiblemarket to thank/blame for this one. We just really wanted to see that Trash King John Constantine thing come true, so here it is.
> 
> Some notes, for those who might be curious. This takes place at Castle Ravenscar, a few decades after the death of King Kon-Sten-Tyn. The timeline has been shaken up so that John's story taken place somewhere in the 13-14th centuries. The illness he is inflicted with is infantile catarrh, which is an inflammation of the mucous membranes. Aniseed tea (which, like Hildegard, comes from Germany) is a treatment for this.
> 
> Saint Hildegard of Bingen is an actual person I randomly discovered while doing research for this fic. She was so interesting I had to weave her into the narrative. She was a genius herbalist/healer/scientist/nun/composer/writer of mystical languages. The language she invented is called "Lingua Ignota", which consists of original words mixed in with Latin words. In this fic, she lives about 200 years later than she does in real life, and is also a magic nun. *shrug*
> 
> A translation of the words she uses:
> 
> Peranz - Prince  
>  Limzkil zains - Infant Boy  
>  Ridens Cliuinx - Laughing Magician


	2. O Frondens Virga

The Constantine siblings had a somewhat uneasy relationship. As much as Cheryl enjoyed her new position as Big Sister, a part of her always held it against John that he was considered the more important child. If it wasn’t enough that was born a boy and was there for “more respectable” or some nonsense like that, he was also the Crown Prince, and therefore more valuable to the whole country than she was. She never really believed she would become Queen (there were far too many older male cousins running around for that to be a possibility), but fairytales stuck with you when they were the only stories on your side. She liked the idea of marrying a lovely prince and becoming a powerful queen who could banish people for telling her who she could and couldn’t play with. She also very dearly missed her mum, but accepted that that wasn’t really John’s fault, unlike father.

The king hadn’t seemed to change his mind about how he felt about his son. There was always an air of animosity between them any time they were in the room together. The now five year old was just aware enough to understand that his father didn’t like him very much, and that he didn’t have any problem with his sister. This understanding manifested in a lot of tantrums and running away from Nurse Sybil.

Most of the time he’d end up squirreling himself away in Sister Hildegard’s quarters. She was discrete and understanding, and more likely to give him a hug than a hiding. And sometimes, if he was very lucky, she would very quietly tell him about Magic. His eyes would glow with fascination, and he would ask endless questions, and she would patiently answer them until even her saintly patience gave in under the strain of constant But Whys.

As John Constantine grew older, he began to ask more direct questions. “Why must we use protective circles?”, “What does St. John’s Wart cure?”, and “What do your words mean?”. In secret they would meet, three times a week, so that she could teach him the answers. One day they would talk about plants, another day they would talk about the words of her own language, the Lingua Ignota. On the third day, she taught him about life, and survival.

“Never look down on another for their class, John. Class is a false creation, divorced from logic or mercy. Remember that unfairness has a way of coming back to you. A servant you abuse may one day decide to take your life, or curse your bloodline. But do not abstain from cruelty for fear of retribution, but because cruelty is wrong, and evil, and a stain that will spread to other aspects of your life.”

John had nodded at this. Class was indeed rubbish. All the noble boys he took lessons (with one or two exceptions) were rotters who thought they were too good to wipe their own arses, and were very boring playmates. John was far happier playing with the cook’s daughter and the stable boy. They would sometimes go on midnight raids of the kitchens, and make off with strawberries and bits of honeycomb. They taught him all the best swear words and hiding places.

Life was working out wonderfully for John, up until the summer of his tenth birthday. The day before one of his plant lessons, Sister Hildegard had one of her visions, and it left her bedridden for a fortnight. When she was finally able to speak to him, she brought news that broke his heart.

“Dearheart, God wishes for me to return to my abbey. I have been away from my sisters for too long, and there is much work still for me to do. And you have grown so much, my clever little darling.”

“No, no! I won’t let you go! They don’t…they don’t care about me! You’re the only one who loves me Hilde! Please!” he said, sobbing into her bosom.

“Oh kleine peranz, you know there are people who care for you. If you know where to look you will always find the ones who love you.”

“They don’t love me! They tolerate me, like a stain on a perfect tapestry they can’t be bothered to replace! Even Cheryl hates me!” John wailed, crawling in a ball under her bedding.

“Cheryl doesn’t hate you, John. She is a fifteen year old girl about to be wedded off to a foreign boy she has barely laid eyes on. If she snaps at you, it is because she is scared and frustrated. You are always teasing her, so of course she gets angry sometimes. It is not that she has no love for you”. She lifted the bedclothes and drew him into a hug, patting him gently. “I am not gone forever. You can always write letters to me, and I will always answer them. You will always have the knowledge I have passed on to you. And when I am truly gone, you will feel me in your magic. I will never truly leave you, John.”

Though John calmed a little, he continued to cry beside her for hours. Hildegard stroked his hair and sang to him as he began to drift. “ _O frondens virga,_ _in tua nobilitate stans,_ _sicut aurora procedit._ _Nunc gaude et laetare et nos debiles dignare_ , _a mala consuetudine liberare,_ _atque manum tuam porrige ad erigendum nos…”_

With the departure of his favourite person, John’s mood began to sour. He lashed out at his nurse, at his tutors, at the court advisors, and his friends. His great mistake came at dinner, when he hissed at his father’s command that he stop kicking the Marquis’ son under the table. (In his defense, the little prick had started it, when he called John a nun-loving milksop). King Thomas’ face turned scarlet, and he dragged his son out of the dining hall by his hair.

Punishment was swift, and unusually personal for the king. He thrashed John twenty times with the sole of his boot, and sent him to bed without food. Early the next morning, he was hauled out of bed by his nurse, and taken back to the king’s chambers.

“I’ve had enough of your shit, boy. You are an embarrassment to the court, and to our family. You act like a common mongrel again and I will make you feel the consequences. I will not have my son ruining the reputation of the royal family, and pissing on our alliances. I’m going to send you away to a place where they will make a decent prince of you, and teach you some sodding manners. Am I clear?”

John had argued, and received another, more severe hiding. The next day, his bags were packed, and a company of soldiers and courtiers were arranged for the long journey to Oxford.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, "O Frondens Virga" is taken from a song from Hildegard von Bingen's morality play "Ordo Virtutum". The translation of the song is as follows:
> 
> O branch, coming into leaf,  
> standing in your nobility  
> just as dawn advances:  
> now rejoice and be glad  
> and deem us, helpless ones, worthy;  
> free us from evil habits  
> and even reach out your hand  
> to lift us.
> 
> And yes, Oxford was around in the time that this story is set (sometime in the 1300's). Oxford is the second oldest university in Europe, with history stretching back to at least 1096.


	3. Smaletis

Chapter 3

At thirteen years old, Prince John Constantine found studying to be incredibly, achingly dull. He was far too young for many of the studies that his father was forcing him to undertake, but being the crown prince, his teachers were powerless to argue against his inclusion. As a result, he spent a lot of time having to be tutored, which ate away at his precious free time. His father had arranged for him to study Latin, Greek, French, Mathematics, History, and Philosophy. None of which held his attention for very long, although he could tell you to go fuck a horse in four languages, which was a nice consolation prize.

When he was at last free of his lessons, John spent his time walking through the city of Oxford, trying to dodge his guards at every opportunity. Occasionally he managed this through bribery and merely annoying the shit out of them until they took the night off to go drinking. And if that didn’t work, a gentle charm could be employed to “suggest” that they were very, very thirsty, and that there was a very nice pub on the other end of the city. That never failed.

On these blessed solo adventures, John would explore the local apothecaries and blacksmith shops. The closest of these to the college held no interest for John; they were too close to his dormitories to offer any kind of escape or sanctuary. If he wondered around there for too long he’d no doubt eventually run into some prat from school looking to buy a decorative codpiece. Instead, he preferred to don the plainest clothes he had, and stroll down side-streets frequented by more working class people.

_When John was eight, Sister Hildegard had taken him to the blacksmiths shop in the city surrounding Ravenscar. She had purchased a small pouch full of iron nails. “Coffin nails”, she explained to him. “Iron coffin nails are a potent source of magic. You see, dearheart, iron is powerful ward against evil, especially newly forged iron. Nails from a coffin, or iron from a graveyard are incredibly valuable, though I would caution against letting anyone know that you believe that. For price sake, and for the sake of your reputation…lest the people think their prince is a necromancer looking to steal from graves.”_

_At John’s worried expression, she had smiled and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “It’s alright, sweet boy, we’re not stealing from anyone’s coffin. Mr. Harding’s apprentice merely mis-measured the wood when they were building the coffin. They have to start again now, and I persuaded Mr. Harding to sell me the coffin nails for an extra coin, and something for his wife’s aching back.” John had relaxed a little at that._

_“Alternatively, you could convince a blacksmith to make a nail to be driven into a display coffin, and then removed, but somehow that tends to make them more suspicious. Be polite and willing to pay a little bit more, and they won’t worry so much,” she added._

_John had nodded, and taken the nail she had offered him. “This one is yours. Tonight, I will show you what you can accomplish with it.”_

In his present times, John found himself walking through a street mainly filled with tailors, a bakery, and a butcher. He had asked at a local market about a blacksmith, and they had pointed him that way, though he wasn’t having much luck finding it. He had gotten lost three times going down the wrong alleys, and it was getting too dark to tell the difference between one street and the next. He found himself being openly stared at a few too many times for comfort. John was close to giving in and going back to his dormitory, when he noticed he was being followed. Another boy his size would probably have been intimidated by the two much older boys who were grinning at him like smug cats. John, however, stubbornly refused to feel anxious. “Hello,” said John, eyeing them up and down. “Did you mistake me for someone else?”

“Nah,” said the taller of the two boys, all dirty blond hair and covered in sawdust. “Me and Gavin here were just thinking that you had very nice boot buckles for someone so far from the university. Very nice, silver boot buckles. Must have cost your ma quite a bit, those.” Gavin, a redhead with a face like an overripe strawberry, nodded dramatically. “Yeahhh, lord, would love a pair of those meself. What say you give them here like a good boy, and you won’t have to go home and tell her why you haven’t got any teeth left.”

John glared at the pair. “Fuck off, you greasy cunt.” He reached for his belt, only to find that what he was looking for was gone. He patted his pockets in vain, and the boys burst out laughing. “Oi, Martin, I think he’s looking for his little knife!” said Gavin. The taller boy pulled a small steel dagger out of his pocket. He spun the handle around between his fingers. “This one’s very nice. I’m definitely keeping this one. You really should watch your belongings on busy streets, you know. Now, I believe Gavin here told you to give us your fucking boot buckles, and any coin you might have hidden on your person, while we’re at it.”

John contemplated throwing a curse at him, or trying to get a punch in. The scrappy fighter in him told him to take at least one of them down with him as violently as he could, even if they gutted him. He had put a return-to-master charm on the dagger a year ago, but that wouldn’t do him much good if they lodged it in his guts.

He raised his fists, ready to throw down. Martin raised an eyebrow, and started closing in on him. “Suit yourself, toff. Gonna cut that pretty face right off.” John ducked down and grabbed a handful of dry horse manure near his feet with his unclenched hand, throwing it at Martin’s eyes. Martin gasped in fury and dropped the dagger. Just before Gavin could retaliate, a large metal ball hit him hard in the bicep. “Arrrhhhh! Fucking Christ!” he screamed, clutching his arm as the large projectile rolled away.

John looked around to see where it had come from. A boy from a nearby store had come running out. He was about the same height as John, but looked a little older, and from his apron and choice of weapon (a big fucking hammer), was clearly a smith’s apprentice. “Oi, clear off, scum. Or I’ll let your dad know we’re not selling him hinges or nails anymore,” he said, looking at Martin.

Martin scowled and wiped at his face. Gavin choked back tears, clutching at his bicep and making pained noises as he pulled his friend to follow him. Martin paused for a moment to spit in John’s face, before following his friend down the street in silent rage.

“That shut them up…are you the only blacksmiths around or something? He took that threat rather seriously,” said John, wiping the spit off his cheek. His heart was still beating furiously in his chest, but it was a rush of excitement rather than fear. He felt proud of himself, and he couldn’t help but grin furiously.

“No,” said the apprentice. “We’re just the cheapest in town. Martin’s scummy father would rip him apart if he found out his coffers were getting compromised because Martin wanted to act like a hard man. Worst carpenter in town, that man. Can’t afford the extra coin the boys down the lane would charge him for the same work. Sorta wished Martin’d tried to take it further; someone would’ve found him at the bottom of the river. Hate that bastard.”

“Right,” said John. He walked over to where his dagger had fallen, and retrieved it. He sheathed it and wiped his hands on his leggings. “Thanks a lot for your help, mate. I’m John. What’s your name?” he asked, holding out a hand for the boy to shake.

“My names Richie. Richie Simpson.”

Richie Simpson, it turned out, made really nice chicken stew. He was also sharper than a whip crack, and a very talented blacksmiths apprentice. He took John in for the night, and agreed to forge him some coffin nails in the morning. In return, John offered him the usual bonus coin, and shared with him his oldest secret.

“I can do things,” said John, with a glint in his eye. “Things that shouldn’t really be possible.”

“What, you mean like magic?” said Richie. “Or do mean because you’re a prince, and can therefore get away with things?”

John blinked. “Er, yeah? How the hell did *you* know that?”

“Mate, you offered me way more money for a few coffin nails than I earn in a month. Not even a lord’s son is that oblivious to cost. So either you’re a very, very generous. Or you’re not overly familiar with spending your own money, and have had people buying you things for years.”

“Okay,” said John frowning. “But what about what you said before?”

“What, about doing magic? Why, do you actually know magic?” said Richie. He raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

John snorted. “Yeah, I might.”

“Oh, wow…you should meet Gaz! His aunt’s a white witch, you know. Taught him some stuff.”

John’s eyes widened. “Really? He knows magic too? I’ve never met anyone else who practiced before! Does he know the Words? Does he work with plants? Does he know charms?!”

Richie winced. “Calm down, mate. I haven’t the foggiest. I just know he’s great at getting rid of a headache. He works at the apothecary two streets down and a left turn from here. I’ll introduce you in the morning. But I can’t stay long, I’ve got work to do.”

“Cheers, Richie. You’re a good bloke.”

“I know, _Your Majesty_.”

“Har har. Don’t go spreading that around.”

“What, and lose a rich new customer to another mugging? Not on your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll keep it brief. "Smaletis" is the Lingua Ignota word for blacksmith. I actually had to look up when cannons were invented while writing this, and to my relief, handcannons were already a thing, and so were some types of cannonballs. In this instance, Richie just fucking hurled it with his blacksmith arms.


End file.
